


Hatchlings, Crows, Doves –– Oh, My!

by R_Clearwater



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, Gen, M/M, Would you believe that Finch is not the bird expert here?, fluffy mcfluff fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26635855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Clearwater/pseuds/R_Clearwater
Summary: There's absolutely no explanation for it. The only association he has with birds is his last name, nothing else.Why, then, do the creatures keep flocking to him?_._Piece 1:In which Harold has no fascination when it comes to birds. But when he meets the one man whodoeshe begins to understand why.Piece 2:Sameen doesn't care about birds, bird-watching, or people named John. All she wants is her steak.All she's getting is an introduction to someone who likes to call herself Root. That, and a drowsy crow that she doesnotcare about. At all.Piece 3:Wherein Harold finds himself an unwitting host to quite the surprise....
Relationships: Harold Finch & Lionel Fusco, Harold Finch/John Reese, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	1. The Hatchling

**Author's Note:**

> To a wonderful woman who inspires an extraordinary amount of courage when it comes to doing the right thing despite your fears.
> 
> **Warning:**  
>  Brief mentioning of spiders at the very beginning and we have a near-death experience, but that’s the worst it gets! 
> 
> Enjoy!

_Why is it always spiders?_

He didn’t care for spiders. He understood and could occasionally bring himself to acknowledge their usefulness in the ecosystems. But to imply that he cared for them would be to imply everyone could afford to live in New York. 

Another frail chirp interrupted the perturbation, drawing the man’s attention firmly away from the spider’s web. It was a grotesque thing lurking mere inches away from his hand, but he couldn’t afford to get caught up in his distaste, not when some poor creature needed his attention.

Precariously perched on a rickety object masquerading as a ladder, Harold Finch resigned himself to this peculiar fate. With every step he took, he took a risk in toppling over at any second. A joyous occasion, indeed. One for the memory books, that was for sure.

A tweet promptly shut those quips up, but the noise was fainter than before. No doubt muffled by that horrible insulation he’d made the mistake of moving earlier.

Perhaps he should have conducted more research before attempting to fix the situation, but what could research provide for him now? Research wouldn’t have told him that the bird had been trapped underneath the insulation. And research wouldn’t have warned him about the attic’s inordinate heat, the temperature nauseating enough to make 40℉ seem like a summer's day. 

But now wasn’t the time for those thoughts. Now was the time to be prepared for anything: a flurry of movement brought on by unexpected freedom, an unfortunately squashed bird, anything could be waiting for him here. 

_Focus, Harold. Focus._

The idea of computing the possibilities was swiftly set to the side. Determination rose up in its stead. And so it was with more than a hint of desperation that the man thrust his hand back up and into the attic. He wasn’t one for prayer, tending to put his faith in technology more than anything else, but he might make an exception today. 

Judging from his earlier observations, he could surmise that the bird was trapped in _that_ corner. It was going to take a fair bit of maneuvering and certainly a great deal of courage –– especially considering the hints of arachnids that were _everywhere_ –– but he knew he had to do something. He could only hope his efforts would help the thing instead of making an even larger mess of the situation.

Seriously, he did far much better with technology than with viable creatures. And even though that normally applied to human interaction, Harold could now classify it as _any form of interaction with any living creature, human or not_.

Maybe a minute later, the chirps settled into a disconcerting hush. The man shut his eyes tightly and waited with consternation, not willing to accept that he was too late. He stirred the insulation once more, willing everything to work. 

A relieved sigh sank into the air as a chirrup sounded, this one crisper than the rest. That meant the bird had more breathing space, that there was nothing obstructing it from achieving flight. So, why then, wasn’t its wings smacking him in the face by now? 

Whatever was going on, he’d need light to figure it out. The attic was simply far too dark to get a good idea of the situation. Not to mention he was liable to faint at any moment from the heat. Which meant he needed to start making his escape.

But as he began to carefully make his way down the ladder –– all of which had been made easier by the pain medication he'd taken earlier –– Harold was recalling one crucial detail: he hadn’t seen a flashlight in months. Which meant that this dismal situation was worsening by the second.

The bird continued to speak up through squawks, crying out for his attention. The recluse paused in his descent, needing a moment to think the situation through. Currently, a flashlight was out of the question. He wasn’t about to try bringing a candle into this mess, but what did that leave him with?

_Of course!_

A yelp escaped Harold as he remembered his surroundings. Dilapidated ladders were apparently not the best places to have revelations. Fortunately, his back did not give out on him. And this remained the case even as he scrambled to stay on the ladder.

Back to the revelation. In an effort to climb down the ladder, Harold had inadvertently brushed up against the pocket containing his phone. How someone with such an affinity for technology managed to overlook their phone was anyone’s guess. 

He pushed that round of self-berating retorts to the side. Harold then made sure to turn the flashlight setting on before he pulled himself back up into that sweltering darkness. Cautiously, fully aware his back could spasm if he didn’t take his time, the man slowly pivoted his body and adjusted the brightness on his phone.

Quickly scanning the dust-filled atmosphere, he tried to focus on gleaning anything useful about the bird. He knew he had to work fast to save the thing, and already the heat was beginning to get to him.

“Where are you?” That awful silence had returned, and Harold briefly wondered if he really had been too late. But he couldn’t be too late, the thing had only started chirping maybe twenty minutes ago, thirty tops. There still had to be time to do something, to make a difference.

Right?

Scowling at his repetitive thoughts, he readjusted his hold on his phone for the millionth time. Only then could he focus on getting a better look, peering into the part of the attic where he thought he’d heard the bird––

The hatchling, for it couldn’t be anything else, was the ugliest thing he’d ever seen. And that was a kind assessment.

However, that wasn’t what distracted Harold. Far from it.

Because it had to have been hatched only that day, it barely had the strength to lift its head, let alone fly away. And seeing as how there wasn’t a nest in sight –– a mystery in itself if he were being honest –– he felt as though he were being handed an impossible situation.

Firstly, he wasn’t an ornithologist. Secondly, other than a chance encounter with a pigeon fifteen years prior, this was his first proper interaction with any sort of bird. Thirdly, it wasn’t just any sort of bird. It was a hatchling. A surprisingly atrocious looking thing that strained itself to move a centimeter at most as it chirped for the umpteenth time.

“Now what?” There was no one else in the vicinity. No one he could rely on for help when it came to this delicate dilemma.

_Except..._

“Oh, really? I'm only just remembering that _now_?” He didn’t need someone else here, not when he had his phone. Fumbling with the screen, his breathing became labored with every second he stayed up here, he barely managed to call Joss up.

Voicemail.

_Okay._ Nathan wasn’t his go-to for bird rescue efforts but this dust-filled heat wasn’t leaving him many options.

Once again, voicemail.

Perhaps Sameen would be available–– _“This is Shaw. I never check this. Don’t bother leaving a message.”_

Well, that left only one option, considering the small circle he ran in.

_“Wassup, Harold?”_ The man in question cringed, his friend’s casual tone grating on his ears. But he was running out of time.

“Lionel,” Here’s hoping something good came out of this. “You wouldn’t happen to have an interest––” God, he couldn’t breathe. “Your opinion of birds, what is it?”

_“You okay?”_ Leave it to his friend to ignore the question.

“Fi––” Sarcasm was difficult to maintain, given the temperature as well as the atmosphere of the attic. “Fine.”

_“You at home?”_

“Yes, why?”

_“We’re coming over.”_

* * *

“Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Finch?”

Lee Fusco was an astonishing a seven-year old boy. Entirely polite, considerate to no end, and, most importantly for today’s events, enamored with birds. 

Harold simply couldn’t understand where the child got it from.

“Ignore whatever he says, Lee,” A scowl emerged at this as the recluse glared up into the attic. “Just know that our Finch’s in good hands. And so is our hatchling!”

“He is?” Both child and recluse asked, though the latter came out as a wheeze. Apparently, dust proved to be quite the opponent among other things.

“Well,” Emerging from the attic with the little critter caught in a pink butterfly net –– according to Lee, butterfly nets were one of the kinder ways to catch flies and bring them outside. Harold had long since decided he wasn’t going to question either the reasoning or the net. “We’re gonna need to call in the professionals. But we’ve learned a thing or two about that stuff, haven’t we, Lee?”

“Yeah!” The boy then turned to Harold, beaming. “Mr. Finch, can I use your faucet? Sometimes water helps the bird with shock and stuff. Oh, and do you have a small box we can use to keep him safe and protected from the sun?”

He weakly nodded, not bothering to correct Lee’s grammar. “There should be an extra box in the bathroom, check the cabinet.”

Once Lee raced off, Harold took a moment for himself and tried to regain his breath. But that wasn’t helping with the nausea, so he turned his attention to his friend. Fusco had almost finished making his way down the ladder’s steps, the butterfly net confidently grasped. And with it, the man managed to keep the hatchling safe. 

“Lee, make sure to also get some water from the kitchen for Harold! And see if he’s got a raw egg.” Lionel made sure the command was gently spoken, smiling at the sound of his son bolting toward the kitchen. Once the child had left the vicinity, “You should’ve called sooner, buddy.”

Harold recognized that in a theoretical sense. But with his heart fighting for a steady rhythm and his back throbbing to no end, he was in no state to truly grasp the concept of relying on others for help. 

Speaking of, when he tried to get up and join Lionel in the bathroom –– it was the closest room with a working faucet –– he received only one word for his efforts: “Stay.”

Well, seeing as how he was winded from the exertion and bowled over from the shock, Harold was somewhat content with remaining right where he was. But, considering the fact that he never liked to be helpless, “Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” This was a firmer response, “You’re gonna stay right there and do nothing.”

“But––”

“Unless, of course, you haven’t already taken your meds. Because if that’s the case, then you _do_ get to something.”

“Funny.” Another chirrup sounded, causing Harold to close his eyes in relief. Relief for not being alone, for having someone around to help, he didn’t know. Truth be told, the relief was nauseating as the pain.

“Take ‘em.” _What?_

Eyes shot open to take sight of a thoroughly unimpressed Lionel Fusco crouching in front of him, medication well in hand. 

“I already have.” 

The detective snorted at this, bringing the bottle closer to his exhausted friend, “You mean you took half the normal dosage.”

Harold didn’t bother lying. Certainly not when Lee was already rushing back, clutching onto a box, an egg and, unsurprisingly, a large glass of water.

“Do you want to call the professionals, dad, or should I?”

The recluse listened on in silence, taking the proffered medication without another protest. 

“How about, as a reward for taking care of himself, we let Harold make the call.” 

Well, it was giving him something to do. And he’d be coherent enough to make it through the call, he would be sure of that. It wasn’t always the right thing to do, to fight the effect of pain meds. But when it was necessary, he could do it.

“ _Hello.”_ Thank God it hadn’t gone to voicemail. _“New York’s Society for Bird Monitoring here, Sam speaking. How may I help you?”_

But how was he to eloquently explain the situation?

_“Hello?”_

“Uh, yeah,” It had to be exhaustion and not the medication that had transformed his vernacular into distasteful noise. Fortunately, once he began to explain the situation, the finer details spilled into the conversation. He even managed to keep the explanation under two minutes, much to everyone's disbelief.

_“Understood.”_ Samantha –– he wasn’t one for nicknames –– had been extraordinarily patient with him, an exemplary example of kindness and professionalism. _“And what is your address?”_

The address given away in seconds, he was relieved to hear in an even more optimistic tone: _“Perfect! I know exactly where you are.”_

“Really?” 

_“Yes.”_ She affirmed, a clear reassurance in her voice. _“In fact, John Reese, one of our volunteers, is right around the corner. Do you have a pen and paper?”_

Harold indicated to a table down the hall, where a notebook sat next to a ballpoint pen. Lee understood the message at once, racing over to grab the items as Fusco maintained guard over the squawking hatchling, continuing to dribble raw egg into its beak.

Seconds later, he was promising Miss Groves –– truly, obtaining formality was his forte –– that he would call her back to give an update once the volunteer took charge of the bird. After that promise was given, all that was left was to end the call and dial up this Mr. Reese.

_“Hi there,”_ Harold blinked back an unfamiliar sensation. His heartbeat was speeding up, and yet the world seemed calmer than before. The dust from before seemed to vanish. Really, all he could concentrate on was the sound of that charming voice.

“Hello, is this Mr. Reese?” 

_“I’m sorry but I am not available at the moment. Please leave your name, your message, and the best way to contact you.”_

Why did it have to go to voicemail yet _again_?

“Hello,” The phone beeped shortly after he spoke, signaling the opportunity to leave a proper voicemail. Harold inwardly sighed before realizing he needed to start speaking if he didn't want to make this even more awkward.

“Hello, this is Harold Finch. Miss Groves informed me –– wait, a second, you don’t have any idea as to whom you’re speaking to.”

He cleared his throat, starting up again and hastily ignoring both Lionel and Lee’s attempt at eavesdropping. “You may be surprised to hear that, despite my last name being Finch, I have little knowledge in regards to ornithology. Furthermore, and I probably should have started with this, the reason I am calling is, in fact, due to the presence of a hatchling that was discovered in my attic. We’re not sure what kind it is,”

“We think it’s a house-sparrow!”

“Actually, we apparently believe it to be a house sparrow. Nevertheless, because we didn’t find a nest nearby, we have kept it sheltered in a small box, and –– judging from the fact that this is a voicemail and not a phone call –– will be bringing the hatchling straight to your place of residence.”

“You mean, _I'm_ gonna bring it to his place.”

“We,” Harold sharply repeated, resisting an urge to scowl at his friend. “Will be sure to bring the bird over as soon as possible. Miss Groves has already provided us with the appropriate address, and,” His phone began to vibrate, “I think you’re calling me back. Therefore, I am deeming this to be ideal time in which to hang up.”

One moment later, _“Hello?”_

That was definitely not the sound of a voicemail.

“Mr. Reese?” Why was he bothering to ask when he’d just heard the man’s voice, he hadn’t a clue.

_“That’s me. Who's this?”_

“Excellent. This is Harold Finch and I,” _Can’t seem to find the appropriate words when it comes to describing the situation at hand._ “And I have a slight problem.”

_“Oh?”_

“We got a hatchling on our hands and there’s no nest to return it to. And Sam said you’d be able to help us.” Let it be known Lionel Fusco could always be relied upon to steal his phone and get down to brass tacks. “So you gonna help us or what?”

Harold gave his strongest glare in the direction of his friend, ignoring the fact that his medication had dulled its effects. The man gave an unapologetic shrug in return, keeping a tight hold on the phone as he walked back to the bathroom.

“Uh-huh, I gotcha.” When all of this was over, the recluse would be saving quite the lecture for his friend. “Yeah, _we_ will be there as soon as we can.”

Lee frowned in sympathy at Harold, the pair well aware what that translated into. From Lionel’s tone, it was clear Harold would not be partaking in this part of the adventure.

“All right, cya soon, bye.” It sounded like the detective had wrapped up his conversation with the volunteer. “John will be at his place in about ten minutes.”

“Perfect.” One of the virtues of pain medication is that it made getting off the floor far easier. One of the drawbacks was the wobbling that came with moving. 

“What did I say about staying still?” Lionel kept him afloat as Lee took care of the hatchling. And though the world threatened to swirl, Harold did his best to remain upright.

“I thought you said _we_ were dropping off the bird.” 

“That ain't what I meant and you know it.”


	2. The Hatchling [Conclusion]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for your patience with this. As I'm sure everyone else can relate to, it's been a time to be alive.

The drugs were past the point of “kicking in” but Harold remained determined to be a part of this peculiar mission. Said mission meant keeping a tight hold of the box containing this hatchling. This was while Lionel used his sirens to his advantage, Lee quietly cheering them on from the backseat. Said sirens weren’t helping with the inevitable nausea –– his meds were supposed to be taken with food, and he hadn’t eaten anything in four hours –– but he’d worked past nausea before.

It was the hatchling he was more concerned about.

“Is it normally this quiet?” A muffled squawk answered the question, reassuring Harold. With the box firmly shut to keep all light out, he couldn’t keep an eye on the bird. Hence, his panic.

“Lee, can you call John to let him know we’re almost there?” The cop went on to mutter something about parking, but Harold tuned it out the moment colorful language became introduced. He focused instead on keeping the box from jostling, not knowing how disoriented the bird was. The sirens were already pushing it in regards to overstimulating the thing. But seeing as the sirens were cutting a thirty minute trip down to twelve, Harold was inclined to let that fact go.

It helped that, now that they were only a few blocks from Mr. Reese, Lionel had turned the sirens off.

“Damn.” His friend muttered, glancing at the packed street, “Should’ve figured I’d have to drop you off.”

“It is New York, after all,” But a rising wave of bile had him shutting up before he could get too witty.

“You okay?” Fortunately, fortunately for Harold that is, some reckless driver was distracting his friend. The recklessness didn’t help with the renewed sense of discombobulation, but nothing ever really helped with that anyway.

“There he is!” Lee pointed out, having been on the phone this entire time. “He’s the guy in the suit!”

Well, there was only one man in sight. And it just so happened he was in fact wearing a suit. A rather well-cut suit, if the recluse were honest. He never would’ve pegged the man for a volunteer bird watcher with a suit like that but he had no qualms over the matter.

A hushed chirrup brought Harold back to reality, the car slowing down.

“You sure you’re okay––” He was already hobbling out of the car, making sure to put all his attention on taking care of this hatchling. Heat was smacking into his stomach, churning nausea into dizziness. His equilibrium has been knocked around too much today, it was true. And he should have stopped moving by now, should have let someone else take it from here.

But Harold had been put in charge of a life today.

He felt he had no right to pause or stumble now, not when that life was in danger.

Because that was exactly the case. He caught Lionel explaining it to Lee. Somehow the egg had rolled out of its nest and into the attic, most likely through a vent. That would have been bad enough, but the heat from the attic had made it worse: it forced the house-sparrow to hatch too early. 

So, the sooner this bird was in safe hands, the better. 

And maybe it was the surreality the situation. Maybe it was the fact that his last name just so happened to be Finch. Either way, Harold felt inordinately responsible for the bird’s well-being, not knowing what he would if the hatchling died on his watch.

“Mr. Reese!” Where did Lee come from? The boy was bounding up ahead, already up the steps of the town home, “Mr. Reese, Mr. Finch has the hatchling!”

“So I see,” His voice was even kinder in person, holding a trickle of light and amusement and God knows what else. But whatever it was, Harold rather liked it. "Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Finch."

The recluse weakly smiled as he trudged up the stairs, ignoring the swirls of the world returning. “Likewise. I––" He refused to get sick now. "I only hope we’ve made it in time.”

Mr. Reese gave a solemn nod, reaching out to take hold of the box. Harold didn’t hesitate, knowing without a trace of doubt he could entrust the hatchling’s life to this man.

“I can take it from here.” His words weren’t dulcet per se, but they were certainly soothing. Almost a balm for the nausea, hard as that was to believe.

“Good!” Lee loudly proclaimed, something that didn’t help Harold maintain control over his body. The recluse closed his eyes briefly, missing most of what the boy said next.

“You okay, Mr. Finch?”

Harold kept his back to the pair, praying he could get out of here without throwing up on the man, “I’ll be all right, Mr. Reese. It’s the hatchling I’m––” _Stop. Too many words._

“I’ve got just the thing for the guy,” When had the volunteer gotten that close? Not that Harold minded, but his lack of awareness was disconcerting. It meant he would have to lie down as sooner rather than later. “And I think I’ve got just the thing for you, too. Let’s get you inside.”

“Oh, but––”

“Thanks, Mr. Reese!” Lee was speaking on his behalf, a small hand taking hold of his. Normally, such contact would’ve only worsened the situation. But when another hand, an unfamiliar hand, gently rested on his shoulder, Harold found the nausea subsided. He shut his eyes again, needing the darkness and trusting the pair to keep him from knocking into anything. 

“Almost there.” Hardwood floors greeted him, and it was only a few more steps before he was being guided to cushiony depths. The material felt cool to the touch and comfortable enough he was content to keep his eyes closed as the world swirled around him one final time….

* * *

“Good. You’re alive.”

John had been distracting himself by showing Lee the incubator but it was only a stalling tactic. He knew the house-sparrow was taking well to her current home. So as his third guest proceeded to reprimand Mr. Finch, the volunteer found himself hovering just out of sight. He didn’t want to get involved in what sounded like an old argument for the couple, but he also didn’t want to leave them alone.

“You know you can’t pull off stunts like that, not with your back and your migraines. I’m just surprised nothing spasmed while you were off playing hero in the attic.”

“Lionel,”

“No, none of that ‘Lionel’ crap. You’re lucky you made it to the couch and you know it.”

“Everything all right?” Although John agreed with Lionel, he didn’t think the man needed to be that blunt. Not when Mr. Finch was still waking up, disoriented.

“Yeah, thanks to you.” The detective stood up, turning back around. “Seriously, if there’s anything we can do,” 

“Yeah,” His son echoed, having finished admiring the incubator, “Please, let us know!”

John shook his head, “No need."

Considering how cautious the world had become, it was an honor to be entrusted with taking care of both the hatchling and Mr. Finch. He personally felt it was the least he could do.

“Yeah, well, let me know if that ever changes.” The portly man turned around, “And don’t even _think_ of leaving that couch.” Fusco whipped back around, remembering this wasn’t his house. “At least, not for another minute. But, don’t worry, John, we’ll be outta your hair soon.”

“No need,” The volunteer repeated, more concerned than anything else. Considering Mr. Finch had passed out the moment he’d sat down, John wasn’t gonna kick him out any time soon. “Take all the time you need.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reese.” This time, it was Mr. Finch who was speaking. He sounded weaker than John liked, but he was coherent. An hour ago, when he hadn’t been able to finish his thoughts, _that_ had been concerning. “Your hospitality is most appreciated.”

John gave a faint smile at that, shaking his head in disbelief. The guy had to be rolling in nausea. How did he manage to sound like a college professor? It was just like his voice-mail from before, a message John was glad to have caught. 

“That’s Finch for you,” An odd thing for a significant other to say, but he wasn’t one to judge. “Could have a knife in his back and he’d still bring out the top-dollar vocab.”

Yeah. When Detective Fusco spoke like that, they sounded more like good friends than anything else. But, again, John wasn’t one to judge. Besides, the guy was a cop. He could only imagine that they had met on some case. Maybe a homicide, maybe something a little more PG. It didn’t explain their relationship, but it would explain how they met and why they were so blunt with one another.

Or, at least, why Fusco was blunt. John got the feeling that Mr. Finch didn't do bluntness.

“How droll.” At least the man was well enough to use sarcasm. He preferred that to his groans and gasps from before. “Yes, well, I’m sure we’ve overstayed our welcome.”

_No, you haven’t._ He wasn’t one for forcing people out when they weren’t ready to move. Then again, he had to respect Mr. Finch’s opinion, even if he didn’t share it.

“Would you like a hand up, Mr. Finch?” Lee was softly speaking up, remaining right next to the couch.

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“The hell you will be.” John nodded along with Detective Fusco, instinctively knowing that Harold would need help. “John, can I get a hand for a moment?”

“Absolutely.” In seconds, they were carefully helping the exhausted man to his feet, “You sure you don’t want to stay a little longer?”

“No, no.” Mr. Finch’s eyes lingered on John for a moment. But whatever he was thinking, he wouldn’t share it. Instead, the man shook his head, grimacing. “You have more important things to take care of, like the hatchling.”

The volunteer wanted to protest this. The hatchling was safe and sound. Mr. Finch, on the other hand, was obviously in need of further attention. But if the man wanted to retreat with his boyfriend, he wouldn't fight it.

Only, for once, John couldn’t keep quiet, “Let me know when you guys get home.”

“Of course.” The detective firmly agreed, “And let us know how the bird does.”

“Yeah!” Lee chimed in, reminding everyone of his presence, “Please let us know when you can, Mr. Reese!”

“That would be greatly appreciated, Mr. Reese.”

“John.” Damn it. He was supposed to say _Will do_ or _Of course_ , not tell them to refer to him by his first name. 

“John.” That had to be a murmur coming from Mr. Finch. John didn’t tend to see the world in murmurs. Usually people tended to whisper. But _that_ felt like it had to be a murmur. He liked it. "Then I insist it's Harold."

_Harold._ He also liked the sound of that. A lot.

“Break it up, lovebirds,” The volunteer didn’t know how to respond to that, keeping quiet. “You've got a hatchling to keep alive and it’s nap time for you.” 

“You’re–– you’re enjoying this.”

“You’re dam–– darn right I am. Time to go, Lee!”

“But, Dad, can’t we––”

“We can say hi to the hatchling once she pulls through. Right, _John_?” 

The man in question gave a hesitant nod, feeling like he was agreeing to much more than a visit, “Sure.”

Lionel Fusco was definitely smirking at him, that much was clear.

With that smirk came the realization that John Reese had no idea what he was agreeing to.

* * *

“I still can’t believe I collapsed on his _sofa_.” Finch was continuing to moan and groan over this for the millionth time. It’d been a day since it’d all happened and his friend just couldn’t get over the accident. Of course, it made sense. The guy was still bedridden. Having to fight back pain and a migraine did that. 

Anyway, his health battles were the reason they were visiting today: Lionel knew his friend would need checking in on. He wasn’t unable to fend for himself, but having friends didn’t hurt. 

“Better his couch than––” Lee was coming back into the bedroom, a bottle of Gatorade in his hands, the only migraine offering they had. “Than the floor. Thanks for grabbing the drink, kiddo.”

“Yes, thank you, Lee.” With his eyes still shut, the effects of the migraine obvious, Finch reached for the bottle. He took a hesitant sip before responding, “And, yes, Lionel, I would agree: that sounds infinitely preferable.” 

“Dad, do you know how the hatchling’s doing?” The boy was conscientious enough to whisper. But even a whisper couldn’t conceal his enthusiasm.

“Nope.” He couldn’t help the blunt reply, a plan coming to mind, “But I know how we can find out!”

“What are you–– Lionel, put my phone down.” Good. Harold was well enough he could hear what was going on. Yeah, it’d be nice if he could open his eyes without pain, but hearing was still something.

“Oh, but you’re the one who’s got the guy’s number, _Finch_.”

“What did I say about calling me––” “Hiya, John! Figured we’d give you a progress report in return for an update on the bird.”

Lionel inwardly cackled as Harold shut right up, curling in on himself as much as he could. 

_“Fusco, the hell you on?”_ Calling Carter was priceless for so many reasons. _So_ many reasons.

“Just playing around, Carter.” He honestly responded, snorting as he felt Harold’s glare from under the pillow. “Enjoy your day off with Taylor.”

His partner hummed in response, her confusion and disbelief clear. But she wouldn’t question him, not until they were back in the bullpen.

“Dad, that wasn’t funny!” “Indeed. If you’re finished ‘playing around’, I suggest you reach out to Mr. Reese.”

Ah, Harold really wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Guess it was time to text John using his friend’s phone.

“And if reaching out proves to be impossible, then I would appreciate having my phone back.”

“Even though the light’ll kill your eyes?” Because he knew the level of pain Harold was in. The guy wouldn’t be on his phone any time soon. “Relax. I’ve sent John a text and it says he’s read it. I’m sure we’ll get a response soon enough.”

Sure enough, **_Detective Fusco, I presume? –– JR_ **

What gave it away? The fact that his text had the word _yo_ in it? 

Really, if he wasn’t careful, he’d laugh his head off. 

“Turns out,” Lionel dutifully reported the next text, “She’s gonna be just fine. John’ll keep her for another day or two, but she’s eating good and growing.”

“Excellent.” “Yay–– Sorry about the noise, Mr. Finch.”

“It’s all right, Lee.” The man remained buried beneath his pillow, still curled up as much as he could. “I take it that’s the end of that?”

“Not exactly.” Lionel held out the suspense for as long as he could, grinning. “Turns out, he wants to make us dinner as a thank you.”

“Shouldn’t we be the ones thanking him?” “Really? When do we get to go, Dad?”

“ _We_ won’t be going: it’s a school night.” Lionel ignored the pouting and the disappointment, turning to Harold. “He insists. Said the real rescuers are the ones who should be getting the free dinner.” 

“Well,” Lionel smirked at that bemused tone. He knew Harold was hooked even if the guy wasn't gonna admit it. “I suppose we ought to accept.”

“Already did.”

* * *

John didn’t regret any of it: running out to the grocery at the last minute, having to choose between breakfast for dinner or Italian, hauling both options back to his place. 

He also didn’t regret accidentally getting an armful of Harold Finch when the couple finally arrived.

“So sorry about this John but,” Lionel was already heading back to his car, explaining over his shoulder: “Just got called into work. 'Fraid I won’t be able to stick around.” 

The cop was gone before the volunteer had a chance to respond. All that the volunteer could do was realize he was still holding onto Harold.

Five awkward seconds later, the pair remembered to untangle themselves, “Sorry about that.”

“It is I who should be apologizing, Mr. Re–– John.” Was the guy blushing? “Lionel can be rather… _dedicated._ ”

It didn’t sound like Mr. Fi–– Harold was talking about a dedication to the job. But John decided not to question anything. Maybe the couple had a fight or something?

“So,” They were still in the doorway, and he had no idea where to go from here. “Eggs Benedict or Italian?”

“And why can’t we have both?”

_A guy after my own heart,_ John thought with a faint smile, gesturing for Harold to start heading in. 

Little did he know, the man's thoughts mirrored his.

* * *

"Goodbye, Becky!" Lee Fusco wasn't normally one for tears, but he'd make an exception for the hatchling. 

If he had been listening carefully to the accompanying adults, he might've caught Mr. Finch questioning Dad over naming her Becky. But Lee could only hear the squawks of the hatchling as he frantically waved goodbye.

"How was dinner?" The boy perked up at the conversation, really liking Mr. Reese. And it looked like Mr. Finch liked Mr. Reese, too, which was really _really_ nice. 

"Dinner was lovely." Lee made sure to keep quiet, even if he couldn't keep his grin off his face at the sound of that. Mr. Finch sounded _really_ happy, which was so cool because he didn't normally sound like that.

"Mr. Reese!" He was spurred on by the happiness he could hear, quickly finding the volunteer. "Can we go bird watching sometime?"

"Shouldn't you be asking your father first?" Lee frowned. The volunteer may have been right, but the kid didn't like it. Luckily, it only took him a few seconds to know what to say next.

"Dad! Can you, me, Mr. Reese, and Mr. Finch go birdwatching sometime?"

Had Lee Fusco been paying attention, he would have seen Mr. Reese and Mr. Finch turn redder than cardinals. All he noticed was that his dad was trying not to laugh at something. "Can we? Can we? _Please?_ "

The boy would make sure to do all his homework. He'd even ask his teacher for the homework in advance if that's what it took!

"Sure, kiddo." His dad was turning to the others, "What you think, John, Harold _?"_

Lee followed Dad's lead, whipping around, "Yeah! What do you think, guys? Wouldn't it be fun to have a play-date?" 

It was so weird, Mr. Finch and Mr. Reese were suddenly both really red in the face about something. And now he couldn't really get real answers from either of them, so he didn't know if they were okay. 

"Dad, are they okay?"

But Dad was laughing really hard about something, some kind of a joke Lee wasn't getting.

"Dad?"

"They'll be just fine." _Yay!_ His dad couldn't keep from laughing though, which was weird. Guess he'd have to ask him about it later. "I think they'd love a play-date, don't you agree, _Finch?_ John?"

"I–– I––" "Well,"

At this rate, Lee would have to take that as a yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, innocent word-choice becoming not-so-innocent. Fun times, am I right?


	3. The Crow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Shoot fans and the crow that inspired this chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

Birdwatching with Lionel, Lee, and John may have commenced as planned but it deviated in its execution. Lionel and Lee somehow wound up walking along faster, leaving John and Harold together for most of the time. But the two men didn’t mind, not really.

“I never knew Prospect Park had so many species,” He excitedly whispered to John, leaning over in anticipation. One of the rules of birdwatching was to avoid stressing the birds out. That meant staying relatively quiet and maintaining a distance. “Did you say more than 200 types of species fly through here?”

“That’s right,” John murmured in response, practically beaming at the enthusiasm. Apparently, Harold wasn’t one for birdwatching, which meant he got to share a lot about the subject. Not only that, but in order to keep the area relatively peaceful, they had to stick close together if they were gonna talk. All in all, not a bad time. “There’s actually a lot of parks in the city that host hundreds of birds.”

“Really? I never noticed!”

The volunteer hummed in understanding, lightly placing a hand on Harold’s shoulder to get his attention. “Now, do you hear that? That’s a Wood Thrush.”

“Oh, my,” It was a beautiful melody, tranquil yet crisp like a laser. “Where’s it coming from?”

“Here,” Both hands came to rest on his shoulder, gently guiding him in the direction of the sound. “Can you see it?”

“I think I’ll need your binoculars for this,” Harold confessed, stunned by the comforting warmth that came from such physical contact. “That is, if that’s all right?”

“Of course it is.” In seconds the binoculars had been passed over, “Can you see him now?”

“I think so,” Whatever bird he was spotting, they were rather charming. “So, what do you know about Wood Thrushes?”

“Well,” Harold smiled as John began to quietly continue, letting all of the serene sounds wash over him….

* * *

  
  


“And did you know, Sameen, that ospreys –– who apparently take a liking to Marine Park out in Brooklyn –– mate for life? I mean, I didn’t even know birds could do that! I knew, of course, about––”

“Harold,”

“Also, had you told me that international birdwatchers come all the way to Central Park for the birds, I would never have believed you! I honestly still can’t believe that birds actually _live_ in Central Park, of all the parks to inhabit,”

“Harold,"

“And, did you know there’s more than just one species of wrens? How fascinating is that? When we went a week ago, I think John caught sight of at least––"

“Finch!” He finally noticed his companion’s lack of interest, the man beginning to blush in comprehension. “I don’t want to hear anything about birds, birdwatching, parks, or anyone named John. Do you understand me?"

He nodded, fully cognizant. And still, because he was rather enamored with the subject, he had to make one more little comment: “You must admit it is ironic that my last name is––“

“Harold! My lunch break ends in thirty. We're changing the subject, 'kay? Or do I need to hunt down _John_ so you two _lovebirds_ can leave me alone?” 

Completely blushing now, Harold conceded control over the conversation without another word.

“Thank you! So, I’m thinking it’s gonna be steak tonight for dinner,” Ah, yes. Food. One of her favorite topics, and one of the ones he didn’t entirely care for. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy fine-dining, merely that their version of fine-dining differed. “Problem is, where to go? I’ve already been to..."

Harold glanced away from their little table, purely because he thought he saw something. A little bit of black, something on the ground near that telephone booth. 

“Harold, are you even listening to me?”

“I am, Sameen,” And he could recall all six of the places she’d mentioned. However, something felt off about whatever was going on over there. And it continually coaxed his attention away. “It’s just, well, I thought I saw something,”

She turned around in her chair, “Don’t see a thing. Now, the real debate is,”

“Hold on a moment. Please.” He still couldn’t get a good look at whatever was wobbling off in the distance, but he didn’t like it. “I’ll be just a minute.”

“Now what?” But Harold had already left his chair, headed toward in the direction of the unknown. Something was clumsily moving around that phone, its movements shaky and–– “Great. Another bird.”

“This isn’t just another bird, Sameen.” Harold took sight of the bird with concern, “How often do you see a crow in New York City?”

“I dunno. They wear black. They’re loud. They’re probably right at home here.”

“I don’t think they are, not these days.” He didn’t have to give it another thought: he was ringing up John in seconds. Something about this seemed off, and he wasn’t going to waste time pretending he knew what was wrong.

_“Hi there,”_ Harold smiled at the sound of that wonderfully voice, mentally rehearsing everything he needed to say. After his last phone call to John, he wanted this one to be far more eloquent. 

“John, it’s Harold.”

_“I’m sorry but I am not available at the moment. Please leave your name, your message, and the best way to contact you.”_

It only figured he would have gone to voicemail. Yes, well, this time Harold was prepared to give a far more succinct message. He informed the man of the situation and their location, asking him to call back at his earliest convenience.

After hanging up, there was only one thing left to do. 

_“Hello. This is New York’s Society for Bird Monitoring, Sam speaking. How may I help you?”_

“Miss Groves? It’s Harold.”

_“Harold? Is everything all right?”_

“Not exactly, no.” He readily explained the situation, proud of himself for being far less awkward this time. 

_“What was that address?”_

The man dutifully repeated it, hoping that help would soon be on the way. They weren’t close to John’s today, so who else could possibly assist them?

“I thought that’s what you said.” 

Harold blinked, pivoting around to discover a rather pretty woman whose voice matched Miss Groves. _Wait a minute––_ that was Miss Groves!

“Groves?” It appeared Sameen was a quick study, ascertaining the identity of the woman at once. “That was fast."

“I happened to be in the area." Was Harold’s ears deceiving him or did that statement contain a salacious quality of sound? "And who are you?”

“Shaw. You get to call me Shaw. Now can we get this over with so I can get back to work? My break’s almost up.” Why did Sameen’s voice sound odd? And why did she ask to be referred to as “Shaw" instead of "Sameen"? Most importantly, however why were the two staring at each other like _that_?

“Nice to meet you, Shaw. You can call me Root.” _Whatever happened to calling you “Sam”? Or “Miss Groves”, even?_ Human interaction would always confuse him, it seemed. Not to mention he didn’t understand how Miss Groves had been able to find them so quickly. “I’m sure we can speed this up, if you’d like. I just might need your help getting––"

“Fine. Now what’s wrong with it?”

Miss Groves gave a strange smile, one entirely directed at Sameen. Harold got the feeling he was missing something else now, something that didn’t relate to the bird. Nevertheless, Miss Groves looked to be a professional, immediately bringing her attention back to the crow.

“West Nile virus. This little guy shouldn’t even be here, all things considered.” 

“‘West Nile virus’?” “Explain.”

“I’ll explain it later. Right now, we need to give him a fighting chance.” Her eyes remained focused on the bird, taking on a different quality than before. The poor thing was wobbling about, as though he were a penguin instead of a crow. “He’s still trying to move, so that’s something. But we need to act quickly –– these guys don’t usually survive this, not from what I’ve heard.”

“Got it. What do you need us to do?” Now Sameen was invested in the situation? Harold wasn’t one to complain, but he was one to be confused.

“I’ve got some gear in my car, but I’m gonna need an extra hand. Would either of you like to come with?”

“I’ll go with. You’ll just slow us down.” 

“But, isn’t your lunch break ending soon?“ The ladies had already vanished, jogging back in the direction Miss Groves originated from. 

Harold sighed, unsure as to whether or not he wanted to make heads or tails out of the incident. Sameen started off thoroughly disinterested in the affair. Now she was going out of her way to help, risking a reprimand all for the sake of a crow?

Fortunately, they didn’t take long to return. Both were gloved and carrying a box –– Miss Groves’ looked to be mostly empty whilst Sameen’s seemed filled with supplies.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any peanuts, would you? I’m fresh out and so’s Shaw.” 

“Peanuts? I’m afraid not.” He wasn’t going to question a thing. Not about the peanuts and certainly not about the two women. He could only assume the former would help the crow. As for the latter, he didn’t dare make any assumptions.

“That’s all right. I probably have something else at home, but I’m not sure,”

“No, I know of a shop nearby.” Having watched the crow woozily wander back and forth for the last couple of minutes, Harold felt a little sick. It didn’t seem right for such a beautiful bird to be plagued in such a fashion, and he didn’t like feeling so helpless. “I’ll have some peanuts for you in just a minute.”

“Thank you, Harold. Oh, and do make sure they’re unsalted!” He nodded, picking up the pace, “Now, then, we’ve got to be careful with this, okay?”

“I know what I’m doing.” They were almost out of earshot, but he managed to keep track of the conversation, wanting to be sure he knew what was going on.

“Rescued birds before, have you?"

“… No.”

"Didn't think so."

Harold decided it would be best to be completely out of earshot, speeding up again not only for the bird’s sake but also for his own. He sense undercurrents in that conversation, undercurrents he was not qualified nor inclined to dissect _or_ understand.

Six minutes and four dollars later, “They’re unsalted, yeah?” “Thank you so much for your help, Harold. I can take it from here."

“That’s correct, Sameen.” The crow appeared safely sheltered in the empty box, “Was it a success, Miss Groves?”

“He’s safe and sound,” She calmly responded, relief flooding her words. “Now it’s just a matter of getting him to rehab.”

“Can you believe it, Harold? She calls them up and they say they won’t be able to take him until tomorrow.” 

“Really?” Somehow, the thought of a bird going to rehab was a little amusing. Of course, now was certainly not the time for humor. Instead, “What will you do now?”

“We’re gonna get him back to the car and go from there.”

“‘We’?”

“Yeah. She obviously can’t carry both boxes.”

“But what about––” Once again, the pair was off. But this time, they weren’t jogging back to the car, most likely to keep the crow on an even keel. As for himself, he felt peculiarly off-balance. “What about your job at the mall?”

Silence continued to greet his question, the man awkwardly shifting about as he tried to anticipate his next move. When three minutes turned into five turned into seven, he came to the conclusion the ladies were not coming back. He had half a mind to text Sameen. However, he was forced to also conclude that she was perfectly capable of making her own career decisions. He still didn’t understand the peculiar bond she and Miss Groves formed in the last ten minutes, but he was resolved to let those questions go.

“Harold?” _John._ “I came as soon as I could.”

“John,” He turned around, unable to keep from smiling. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Where’s the crow?” _Oh, that’s right._ How had he forgotten about all of that in these last few seconds? 

“Miss Groves and my friend Sameen have taken care of the crow.”

“Sam came out? Sam never comes out.” Harold smiled at that, unsurprised. Miss Groves was a nice, if peculiar character. Her nickname, for instance, was a fascinating choice among other things. 

“Apparently, Miss Groves just happened to be in the area. The rest is, as they say, history.”

“That’s good.” Only now Harold didn’t know what to do. Surely now that the bird had been taken care of, there was no reason for John to remain? He most likely had something else to attend to, something far more important than keeping a recluse company.

“Well,” The problem was, he really didn’t mind John’s company. In fact, if he could, he would take up that discussion from before, the one about Prospect Park’s population of Wood Thrush. Those particular birds had a delightful call, one he found himself enchanted by. And seeing as how Lionel had ended up interrupting them when they were getting into the heart of it, there were questions that had been left unanswered. “Well, I suppose,”

If only he wasn't rendered incapable of interacting successfully in social situations. Maybe then he'd be able to obtain some information on the matter.

“Wanna get lunch?” 

_Absolutely._ “I’d love that.” Harold inwardly cringed at his statement, hoping it didn’t come off as untoward. Considering how inept he was when it came to this sort of thing, the last thing he wanted was further awkwardness. “That is, well, what I meant to say was–– well,”

John only smiled, the sight as much of a reassurance as his words, “I’d love that, too.”

Harold beamed at this, his fears alleviated. 

“Anything in particular?”

“No birds today, if at all possible.” That coaxed a snort and an agreement to stay away from birds any time John wished. 

“Well, there’s a diner that I know of. It's a bit of a walk, but the food more than makes up for it.” _Normally, of course, I’d recommend the Eggs Benedict, especially considering our first meal. But I know they’ve got other specialties._

“A diner sounds nice. Recommend anything in particular?”

“Well, as a matter of fact…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because they can enjoy that diner with or without Eggs Benedict.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed that! Had to slip in a little Shoot while I could :) There should be one more chapter left, one that’s very near and dear to my heart. 
> 
> And, for those who are interested: there was once a huge population of crows and ravens in NYC. But the West Nile Virus has done a lot of damage, to the point where the population of crows dropped from 54,549 to 3,440 in just one year (2000-2001). Nevertheless, as a NYT article pointed out, it’s still possible to spot one if you’re lucky.
> 
> In any case, as always, hope you liked that and that you have a nice day. ‘Till next time!


	4. Doves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last bit is based off of my first encounter with birds. It’s something I hold near and dear to my heart, and hope you enjoy.

Something was outside his window. Something was rummaging around the windowsill, ignorant to the fact that it was six a.m. on a Saturday morning. Things were tapping against his window and no matter what he did he couldn’t escape the noise. 

_ What is that racket?  _ Bleary eyes cracked open, a hand scouring his nightstand for glasses. Just what was outside? Grogginess couldn’t compute the variables before him, he needed sight to understand––

“Oh.” _How did this happen?_ This shouldn’t have been possible. 

That is, it apparently was possible. But he certainly didn’t understand it. 

Well, one thing was for sure. 

He knew of an expert in these affairs.

* * *

“You know, I’ve heard of this kind of stuff happening but I never thought I’d see it for myself.” John shook his head in disbelief as he observed the window sill. A pair of mourning doves had decided to make a nest right outside Harold’s bedroom. That wasn’t something that just happened, not normally.

“Should we do something to help?” Harold leaned over John’s shoulders, eyeing the nest speculatively, “I’ve done a little research since I called you: they apparently take a little time to build their nests.”

“Yeah, two to four days.” 

“Indeed. But I was wondering if we ought to help them with the process.” Harold extended a hand past his friend, gesturing to the window sill, “They said the nest would be poorly constructed, but I didn’t think it would be _ that _ bad.”

John gently took the proffered hand, guiding it away from the nest, “We don’t want to spook them. Mess with their nest and they’ll assume we’re a predator. They’ll leave.”

“Right.” Harold breathed, red tingeing his ears as he stared down at their hands. So much for not spooking anyone out. “We wouldn’t want that.”

_ But,  _ John looked back up at his friend,  _ maybe he’s not ‘spooked’.  _

A phone buzzed to life, hands breaking apart as Harold shakily clutched at his phone, “Lionel? Is everything all right?”

_ “You’re the one who called me, buddy! What’s this about a nest?”  _ The volunteer straightened up, regaining his bearings all at once.  _ “Ah, nevermind, Just put John on the line, will ya?” _

John watched Harold begin to pass the phone over before something stopped the man, “How did you know John was here?”

_ “Ya’re kidding, right? Now are ya gonna pass it over to your boyfriend or not?”  _

Harold was back to shutting down, splotches of red rapidly spreading across his face and neck. John would’ve been in a similar state had he not needed to keep it together. He forced himself to grab the phone quickly, preparing himself for anything as he picked up the call. 

“Hello, Lionel.”

_ “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save the Batman act for someone who cares. You got this taken care of or am I gonna need to come by to help?” _

“We’re fine, Lionel.” He’d never had the privilege of coming to Harold’s house before. He wasn’t interested in sharing that privilege with a cop who was bound to tease them the entire time. 

_ “Sure ya are.” “Dad, is that Mr. Reese?” _

John inwardly groaned at the sound of Lee Fusco approaching the phone. He liked the kid, he really did. He just wanted to spend some time with Harold, alone. And if Lee found out about the nest, the kid would be all over it like Christmas. 

“Lee, I presume?” Harold was back to leaning into him, unaware of how the action came off. The man just wanted to get all the facts, he wasn’t aware of how close he’d gotten. Not that John minded. Far from it.

_ “Hi, Mr. Reese! Is Mr. Finch there?”  _ Even Lee seemed to be aware of their relationship. Not that it was a relationship, exactly _.  _ More like a friendship that had hints of something more. But the bird volunteer was all for it, whatever form it came in.

“He’s right here, Lee. You want to talk to him?”

_ “Yes, please!”  _

John passed it back to Harold, withholding a smile as his friend stayed close at hand. The man remained oblivious to his environment, chatting away with Lee about the nest and what he’d learned.

“You' d like to come over?”  _ Of course he does.  _ The kid would probably ask to spend the night at Harold’s, just in case anything changed with the nest. John would have done the same, if it didn’t guarantee complicating everything. “Well, I’m not sure there’s much to see today. They’re only building a nest and––” 

John heard the protests long before they were issued, unable to resist a smirk. Personal wishes aside, this was proving to be an entertaining conversation. 

“Well, I suppose if your father deems it acceptable, you might be able to partake in an observation––”

_ “We’ll see ya in an hour, Finchy. Try not to get up to too much with  _ **_John_ ** _ , okay?”  _ John kept very still, watching Harold be reduced to a stammering mess for the third time in as many minutes. The man was glued to his spot in the room, undoubtedly realizing how close he’d been, blushing furiously at the thought and mentally shutting down.

When his phone interrupted them  _ once again _ , John had half a mind to take it away and chuck it out the window, nesting doves or not.

“Sameen?” Harold gasped out, still in shock from Fusco’s remarks.

_ “Yeah, really don’t wanna know what you and John are doing.”  _ Did Harold actually squeak at that remark? It was kinda cute, if he were honest.  _ “But Root wanted an update on the nest.” _

“How did Miss Groves find out about the nest?” Harold began to wonder aloud, “I never reached out to her and I only reached out to you not more than fifteen minutes ago––  _ oh. _ Hello, Miss Groves. I didn’t realize you were keeping Sameen company this early in the morning–– ah, yes. Yes, I understand now. And, yes, you may give the phone back to Sameen.”

John took the phone back, resisting the urge to guide Harold toward the bed so as to take it easy. He figured his help would get misinterpreted and then the man would end up completely freaking out. 

“The nest’s in good shape, Shaw. No need to come by.”

_ “We’ll drop by tomorrow. Oh, and Reese,”  _ John quietly waited her out, knowing better than to interrupt.  _ “Just in case you forgot: break his heart and I break your neck.” _

“I know.” He had no intention of doing anything of the sort. What he intended on doing was hanging up the call and guiding Harold toward that bed. Despite his initial hesitation, it would be better for Harold to faint on the bed than fall onto the floor.

“What did Sameen want?”

“Just a status report.” He thought about mentioning her planning to visit tomorrow, but figured his friend didn’t need to be worried about that, not yet. 

Harold nodded, thinking through something as he let himself be brought to his bed. He still had to be in shock from the embarrassment, all things considered. But eventually, once the man was settled, he quietly started to speak up.

“John, I do hope you’re not offended by their remarks.”

“Of course not, Harold.” And because he was a sucker for pain, “Are you?”

“Not in the slightest!” He looked up at John, flustered but determined. “I’m mortified by the awkward position they’re putting you in with such insinuations, considering you–– you no doubt,” Harold straightened up, doing his best to pull himself together, “You no doubt have your eye on someone else.”

“Really? That’s what you think?” That was the last thing he had expected.

“Well, isn’t it the truth?”

“No.” John firmly informed the man, frankly confused. Was this really what had been holding Harold back for the last month? He seriously thought there was someone else in the picture? What was he thinking, that there was an unspoken of fiancée lurking in the background? “Do you?”

“Well, if you must know,” No way. He wasn’t about to assume he knew what Harold was going to say, but he knew what a rejection looked like. This wasn’t lining up. “Truth be told, I also do not. Have my eye on someone else, that is. That is, what I mean to say is, well,”

A branch smacked into the window, courtesy of the doves. It startled the recluse, forcing him into motion. He’d practically leapt into John’s arms, stunned by the movement outside before remembering himself. “I am so sorry, John, I don’t know what’s come over me––”

“Don’t be. I like it.”

Harold gaped, “I do believe I misheard you.” 

John kept on looking at him, unapologetic. “You didn’t.”

The gape only grew, blue eyes blinking as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. But nothing was going to drop. John was going to stay right where he was, perfectly content. He liked Harold jumping into his arms like this and he was becoming less and less afraid of admitting it now that he was getting an idea of the truth.

“You can stay here, if you’d like.”

Harold cleared his throat, that blush of his increasing tenfold, “Well, if you have no objections to the action.”

The man settled for a pointed look, making his opinion as clear as he could. 

“Point taken.” 

Slowly, carefully, Harold eased further into John’s arms. He didn’t relax exactly, looking to be waiting for another surprise. But the volunteer didn’t mind. He knew that, whatever this was, it would take time.

“So, what else did you learn about the mourning doves?” Maybe talking about information and facts would calm the man down, give him a chance to relax a little.

“Well, now that you mention it...” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, maybe I’m stretching this last story into two parts… your point?
> 
> Self-teasing aside, I hope you enjoyed that and that you have a lovely day! Definitely let me know if you have any requests for this last chapter –– I would be delighted to consider any and all thoughts.


	5. Doves [Conclusion]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won’t call this an epilogue, but I will say it is the last chapter :) 
> 
> Also! Side note: to fans of “grant me this impossibility”, more will be coming your way soon enough. This just asked to be finished first.
> 
> Enjoy!

If someone were to ask Harold Finch his opinion of birds three months ago, he might have cordially shrugged the question off. Better still, he might have made a little quip about his last name, pointing out of the irony given his lack of interest.

Now if someone were to ask Harold Finch his opinion of birds three weeks ago, he would have happily informed them of a change in attitude. If they were a stranger, that information would come through a quiet remark designed to reveal little. If their social status in his life were significantly higher –– a loved one, for instance –– the air would be unabashedly strewn with bird facts and invitations to go bird-watching.

All in all, it could only be assumed that Harold Finch was becoming a passionate ornithologist. And yet, it would take watching the nesting of mourning doves for the man to realize just how passionate he was.

For if _anyone_ had asked Harold Finch his opinion of birds three _days_ ago, he wouldn’t have been able to keep from beaming. That, and bringing out pictures of what was transpiring on his windowsill –– all the while energetically describing the mourning dove nesting process as though he’d been studying it for years.

Or, rather, that’s what happens when he doesn’t think of the unexpected visits that accompany the nest. Not to mention the lewd remarks made about his relationship with John or the implications that come with the mating process itself.

Once those aspects come into consideration, his opinion becomes decidedly flummoxed.

* * *

“Mr. Finch!” A boy was glued to the window, “I think they might be finished making the nest!”

“Really?” Harold hobbled over into the bedroom, his eyes lighting up, “I do believe you’re onto something, Lee! John said it would take two-four days, which means they’re right on schedule. The eggs should be laid momentarily,”

“About time,”

The budding ornithologist pivoted around, not having realized his friend had dropped by, “Sameen? How did you––”

She ignored his question, gesturing to the windowsill, “I mean I don’t get why _that’s_ considered a nest,”

“Mourning dove nests tend to be crude in nature,” Harold explained without a second thought, despite his protests, “But, what I’d like to know is how––”

“I can’t help it if you’re not gonna lock your doors, Harold.” Was she ever going to let him finish his sentences?

“You don’t lock your doors, Mr. Finch? But Dad says to always lock your doors! Should I get him so you guys can lock them together?” 

That was the last thing Harold needed, especially given the reason why his doors were unlocked.

“If you all must know, John needed to step out to run a few groceries. It felt reasonable, given the short span of time it would take to run groceries, to let my front door remain unlocked.” 

“You could just give him a key,” Sameen pointed out. She rolled her eyes at Harold’s emerging gibberish, “Seriously? He spends his nights here, what’s the big deal?”

“Actually, I don’t spend my nights here.” An armful of groceries appeared in the doorway, “But I agree: I don’t like the idea of you leaving your house unlocked for me, Harold.”

“Well, I,” “Look! They’re starting to nest!”

“Weren’t they already nesting?” 

“Whatever ya think ya know, Shaw,” Leave it to Lionel Fusco to make his return appearance right when Harold needed a distraction. “Ya don’t. Believe me. I thought _I_ knew things, until John here.”

“Oh, I’m sure Sameen knows _far_ more about birds than you give her credit for,” Of course, also leave to Samantha Groves to step into the conversation with coquettish tones, something the situation did _not_ require. 

"I thought I told you to call me Shaw, Root––" But Harold was not about to let the two women bicker over the matter.

“I really don’t think my bedroom allows for such a capacity.” He should have realized such a comment would send off a flurry of responses. As it was, the recluse had no idea what he was in for.

“What kind of capacity _does_ it allow for, Harold?” 

“Eh, no worries, Finchy. We can fit.” 

“Mr. Finch, I really do think they’re almost ready for incubation!” 

“Aww, and just in time. Sameen and I won’t be able to stay much longer.” 

“What did I say about calling me ‘ _Sameen’,_ Root?” “You sure you guys don’t have to leave _now_?” 

“Mr. Finch, I think she’s laying an egg now! I wonder if she’ll lay the other one today or tomorrow–– wow!” 

“... weird.”

“Sameen, if you find the process to be unnerving or disconcerting, there’s no obligation to stay––”

“Yeah, right. I’d never hear the end of it from _her_ .” The woman in question only grinned, a pleased glint in her eyes and a very, _Who, me?_ expression sketched into her face.

No one, not even Lee, bought the coy act. 

* * *

“So, you like birds now?” 

Harold grinned at the sight of Nathan Ingram in his doorway, beaming at his old friend. “I do believe that answer is self-explanatory.”

His friend chuckled at the response, audaciously continuing, “And you like John, too, am I right?”

The amateur ornithologist furiously blushed. Chuckles expanded into full-blown laughter. 

Desperate to tune out the laughter, the blushing man put two-and-two together and realized he’d forgotten all about their agreement to meet today. And since Nathan couldn’t have gotten into the house by himself, “I take it you and John have already met?”

“Nathan here was just telling me about when you two first met,” John’s ability to appear out of thin air was impressive, it was true. His timing in this conversation, however, was far from impeccable.

“Oh, dear.” Harold muttered to himself, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose you left out the part about––”

“And why would I leave out the part about the pigeon? I’d say it’s, to use your own words, ‘positively ironic’.”

“Kinda agree, Harold. I didn’t realize you’d come across birds long before that hatchling.”

His blush performed a mortifying encore, “Yes, well, it wasn’t my fault that–– never mind. Would you like to take a look at the doves, Nathan? I’m afraid they take shifts with the eggs, so you’ll only be able to see one right now, though you must promise to be careful so as to not ‘spook’ them.”

His friend shook his head, amused by the sentiment. Right now, Harold seemed like more of a parent than the birds in question. “John told me they’ll be incubating for at least ten more days. I’d be much more interested in stepping out for an ice cream and catching up.”

“But you never get ice cream––”

“I don’t get ice cream in the dead of winter, no.” And gesturing toward the door, “I could always get ice cream with _John_ , tell him about the time with the––”

“Ice cream it is!”

“Though,” Nathan glanced back at the nest, grinning, “We could always stay here and catch up. I don’t suppose you’re taking this nest thing as a sign to finally settle down?”

“I have no idea as to what you’re referring to.”

* * *

Long after Nathan Ingram’s visit, the pair would be quietly watching the birds from Harold’s bed. Not much could be said for the incubation period, but they still found the process to be entrancing. 

“You know, I must confess: it is times like these that have me wonder,” 

“About?” Because John thought he knew what Harold was talking about, but he knew better than to assume. 

“To quote Nathan, ‘settling down’.” Harold wryly admitted, shaking his head at the thought. “It’s a fascinating concept, one that I never would have considered applying to myself.”

“I like it.” John gave his own little confession, focusing on the nest outside. 

The recluse looked over at the man, surprised. But eventually a small smile slipped into the cracks of bemusement, “I agree.”

He received a turned head for such words, blue eyes widening as disbelief brushed up against him. In seconds, something far more stunning than disbelief was leaning in, brushing up against him.

* * *

It was when they were alone, when it was just the two of them, that it happened. 

“John, come look!” The unadulterated delight in Harold’s whisper had the bird volunteer groggily turning over. “The first egg is hatching!”

That roused the man, John sitting up and leaning on Harold to look outside the window. Waking up this early, watching the man beside him so disheveled and distracted –– yeah, he could get used to this.

Though, was Harold _cooing_ at the bird?

“C’mon, little guy, you can do it.” The recluse murmured, his eyes glued to the little white egg. There was a little brownish grey bit of fluff poking out of the cracked edges, a sign of the hatchling. “That’s right, you’re almost there!”

John found Harold to be more captivating than the birds, though he knew better than to admit it. 

* * *

Did Harold really _want_ everyone to visit the hatchlings all at once? 

Not particularly, no.

Did he really have a choice in the matter?

Nope. 

* * *

“Now, let’s all make sure to keep our distance,” John faintly smiled at Harold’s announcement, “The last thing we want to do is frighten the hatchlings into leaving the nest too soon.”

“We know, Harold.” But Shaw’s grumpiness couldn’t stop one of the guests from enjoying themselves.

“I can’t believe how big they’ve gotten!” Lee exclaimed from his spot, “And they’re so fluffy!”

“Still can’t believe you’ve been fawning over them, Fusco.” Joss Carter teased from the doorway, chuckling at the sight of her partner not-so-subtly keeping an eye on the birds.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. If I hear any of this in the precinct, I’ll know who to blame.”

“Relax, Lionel.” John interrupted them with a smirk, “Carter’s already got her blackmail photos.”

“But this is her first time visiting! How can she–– did you put him up to something?”

“Now, now, children,” Harold was stepping in, clearly in mother-hen mode, “Whatever may or may not have transpired, this is not the location to discuss it.”

Shaw and Root were snickering at the conversation until Harold shot them a look. That didn’t discourage them. Something that only resulted in exasperating him and entertaining the detectives, all five individuals devolving into a bickering bunch.

“If everyone could remain quiet,” It seemed Lee was taking after Finch in this one. The boy had straightened up, standing next to his mentor with an air of great dignity and frustration, “We could ensure that the habitat outside remains undisturbed and that the nesting period –– a most critical period, I might add –– is a success.”

Everyone shut up after that, staring at the kid in bewilderment. Where the hell that language came from, nobody really knew. 

“He certainly didn’t get that from _you_ , Lionel.”

“Shaw, I swear ta God––”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after. The End.
> 
> But in all seriousness, I hope you enjoyed that and that you have a lovely day!

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, this one isn't a one-shot ;) :) the conclusion should be coming out in just a few days.
> 
> Fun fact: these chapters are all based on real-life occurrences. The only differences is the characters involved (and their subsequent reactions) have been tailored to the realm of _Person of Interest_.
> 
> In any case, hope you enjoyed that! And have a lovely day :)


End file.
